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I've been waiting for checks to get here becuase we are scraping the bottom of our separate and joint Wachovia barrels. Between bills that need to be killed and things I want to get for friends (for a holiday we don't really celebrate), it's been looking pretty desparate.
Checks came today (10 separate ones, because she's nuts like that)
And I've realized now that there should always be something on its way. I hate mail that is nothing but catalogs we didn't ask for, missing person flyers, and the occasional Onion. The days the Onion shows up... those are some damned fine mail days.

Send me the piece of paper you found on the steps today. Send me that leaf that looked like it was colored in with magic markers. Send me Very Special Lint.
I just want to always know that there's something on its way. That, right this second, feels very important.

I've felt boxed up. I put myself into a very tiny box for my own good for a little while there. And now that I'm past that, it's hard to stretch my legs and feel like everything is alright, even when I know damned well that it is. I feel more expansive than I have in awhile. I used to have this same gnawing want all the time, and I guess I thought of it as inspiration, need for change and growth, part of my life long identity crisis. I think that with all the things I've allowed to weigh me down it's been difficult to realize that it's a part of what I am, and not a symptom or thing to suppress. But today I am realizing that.

Tomorrow I'm going to get my hair cut.
Tonight I'm going to begin saying the phrase "thank you" to Karl twice as often as I say "I'm sorry"


A Non-Newtonian Fluid

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